


First Bloom

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Martin Blackwood, Brief discussion of sexual boundaries, Canon Asexual Character, First Dates, M/M, Romantic Cliches, Romantic Fluff, Sex Averse Jon, Sex Neutral Martin, So many cliches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24098527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: Jon brings him flowers, on their first official date.*Written for Aspec Martin Week, for the prompt: First.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 46
Kudos: 446
Collections: Aspec Martin Blackwood Week





	First Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> Second fic for Aspec Martin Week (actually the third I wrote, but the second needs a bit more work). This is pretty much pure fluff, with as many first date clichés as possible crammed in there. 
> 
> Please be aware that this contains brief discussion of sexual boundaries, but no sexual content.

Jon brings him flowers, on their first official date. They meet at a little park not far from the Institute, and Martin’s been waiting there almost ten minutes when Jon appears, walking hurriedly towards him with one arm tucked oddly behind his back. 

_“About time,”_ Martin is about to say, when Jon’s hand sweeps out, and the words are lost in his throat. 

The flowers are bold white daisies, their heads nodding gracefully, sprays of small yellow blossoms peeking out between their petals. Jon presents it to him with near schoolboy awkwardness, his cheeks red and scarcely able to meet Martin’s eyes. 

“They reminded me of you,” he says, obstinately, as if daring Martin to deny it. 

Martin doesn’t know what to say. Nobody’s ever brought him flowers before. In fact, he’s not sure he’s ever _had_ flowers. There are a few succulents in his flat, and an aspidistra that he bought ironically during his Orwell phase and has been stubbornly keeping alive since, but he’s never had the knack for blooming plants. And he’s always been too embarrassed to buy cut flowers, as if the salesperson might know he was buying them for himself and judge him accordingly. 

There’s something charming and old fashioned and utterly _Jon_ about the gesture, and Martin scolds himself as he feels tears start to sting his eyes. 

“What are they?” he asks as a distraction, lifting them to his nose. The blooms smell sweet, like honey, with an earthy hint. 

“Oxeye daisies,” says Jon, “And goldenrod. I—you don’t mind, do you? I know it’s a bit of a cliché. We can get rid of them—”

“No!” Martin surprises himself by how sharply he rejects that idea. “No, they’re lovely. Thank you. At least now I know why you didn’t want to leave work together—I thought you were trying to keep it off the Institute gossip vine.”

“Why would I care about that?” Jon frowns a little, genuinely confused, and a tender warmth swells in Martin’s chest. 

*

Jon’s made reservations at an Italian restaurant. Once they’re seated, Martin places the flowers carefully down by his feet, and looks around. The place is cozy and intimate, the tables set with candles, warm lamplight and low music. 

“This place is nice,” he says, picking up a menu. “Have you been here before?”

“Oh, no,” says Jon. “But I’ve walked past it plenty of times, and I always thought it seemed like a—a _date_ sort of place?” 

It is, Martin supposes. Most of the tables are two-person, and most of the other patrons appear to be couples, leaning close to each other in the candlelight, laughing and drinking wine. It’s all very traditionally romantic, and Martin is suddenly extremely aware that he and Jon are on a date. He feels foolish, because of course he _knew,_ but until now it’s been easy to think of it as just...him and Jon. Walking somewhere to eat, like they do for lunch a couple of times a week, talking about work. 

This isn’t _that,_ though. This is flowers and a candlelit dinner, and all of this with _Jon,_ and Martin has no idea what to do. He’s never been any good at dating. Relationships, sure—for a certain value of "good" —but the bit at the start, where you talk about interests and share details of your lives and gauge if this is a person you want to actually know better? Not so much. Martin never knows how much to share, and when, and whether the first date is the right time to have the " _so...about the whole ‘sex’ thing"_ talk or if he should wait for the third, and— 

“Everything all right?” Jon asks. 

“Yes, fine! Why?”

“You just looked a bit...wild eyed there. Like you’d seen a ghost.” 

“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts?”

“It depends what you mean by a ghost,” says Jon, his brow furrowing seriously, and then he’s off explaining theories of psychic trauma manifestations in specific locations, which is _entirely_ different from the concept of an actual human soul lingering in the world, his hands cutting the air to illustrate his point, and it’s just _them_ again, and honestly Martin could listen to Jon talk like this all day. 

It’s lovely, after that. The food is tasty, and the glass of wine Martin drinks softens away the lingering nervousness, and Jon looks extraordinarily good by candlelight, the shadows sketching his cheekbones and jaw, the light sparking in the depths of his brown eyes. The only thing that Martin takes exception to is when Jon tries to pay for the entire meal. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Martin tells him, “We’ll split it.”

“I invited you, so I pay,” Jon persists. “You can pay next time.” 

In the end he gets his way, because Jonathan Sims is possibly the most stubborn human being Martin has ever met, but Martin wins the concession that _he_ will buy ice cream afterwards. He takes them to the little ice cream shop a few streets from the Institute, and Jon looks flustered and pleased when Martin, feeling bold, places the order for both of them. 

“I can’t believe you remembered,” he says softly. His hand touches Martin’s as he takes his cup of rum and raisin, lingering for just an instant, and Martin feels his face go hot. 

“Of course I did.”

*

They walk along the Embankment as they eat their ice cream. The sun is beginning to set, the street lights flickering on, casting bright shards across the surface of the river, and Martin realizes it’s been over three hours since they met in the park. It feels it’s been no time at all, talking easily, sharing little pieces of themselves back and forth. It feels like Martin could stay like this forever.

He stops to toss his empty ice cream cup in the bin, the flowers tucked into the crook of his arm, and when he turns back, Jon is looking at him oddly. The way he looks at a document that he can’t quite figure out, intent and curious. 

“What?” he says.

“Could I kiss you?”

“Oh,” says Martin intelligently. “Yes, please?” 

Jon huffs a surprised laugh, and then he takes a step closer, his hand pressing to Martin’s cheek. His eyes are amber-gold in the twilight. When his lips brush against Martin’s, they are dry and soft and just a little sweet. When he pulls back, Martin tries to remember how to breathe, Jon’s palm still warm against his skin.

“Was that—”

“Yeah,” Martin says before Jon can even finish. “That was good.” 

*

The evening has to end eventually, but as Jon lives along the first line Martin takes to get home, they board the Tube together. It’s still busy at this time, and they stand gripping the handrails, close together in the press of people. Martin holds his flowers against his chest, doing his best to protect them from jostling bodies. There are a lot of things Martin wants to say, things Martin wants to whisper in Jon’s ear or tell him while looking deep into his eyes, but none of them feel right to say here.

The intercom scratchily announces the next station, and Jon clears his throat.

“Well, this is me,” he says. “I’ll...see you tomorrow?”

His voice is quiet and hopeful, as he starts to shuffle towards the door, and that warm feeling is filling up all the space behind Martin’s rib cage. He doesn’t want this to end yet.

“Hang on,” he says, as the train slows to a halt. He moves towards the exit as well, ignoring Jon’s startled glance, and when the doors slide open, he steps off onto the platform. “Coming?”

The doors shut behind them and the train glides away. They stand there for a few moments, while the other disembarking passengers wander off, and then Jon says:

“What are you doing?” 

“I’d like to walk you home,” says Martin. “You’re not far from here, right?” 

“But this isn’t your stop.”

Martin shrugs. “It’s not that much out of the way. And I want to. After you bought dinner, and brought me these,” he lifts his slightly battered flowers. “Maybe I get to do the cliché thing for this part of the date? If it’s okay with you?” 

Jon huffs a breath, and the look he gives Martin is halfway between defensive and apologetic. Martin knows that look, the _“this was nice, but…”_ look, and god, he can’t have been so wrong about all this, can he? 

“I...this has been a—a lovely evening, Martin,” says Jon. “Truly. But I—I don’t want to give you the wrong impression, so I need to tell you that I...don’t _do_ the, ahh, the sexual aspects of a relationship. I’m sorry, I should have been upfront about this sooner—” 

“I know that,” Martin says. 

“Sorry?”

“I know, Jon. Or, well, not _know,_ but there was some...office gossip?”

“Oh.” 

“Sorry, I should have probably said something earlier. I, umm, I don’t either? Not much, at least. I mean I _can,_ if it’s important to the person I’m with? I don’t _mind_ sex _._ But I’d just as soon not. So, yeah.”

“Oh,” says Jon again. He looks stunned. Martin gives him what he hopes is an encouraging smile.

“I really do just want to walk you home, I promise.”

“R-right. I see.” Jon still looks a little stupefied, but relieved along with it, the tension in his jaw relaxing. “In that case...thank you, Martin. I’d like that.”

*

They walk the quiet suburban streets towards Jon’s flat, meeting no one except a startled looking fox that bolts into the bushes. They don’t talk, but it’s a comfortable silence. At some point, Martin feels Jon’s hand brush against his, and their fingers clasp together. He looks across, and Jon is smiling shyly at him. That warm feeling inside his chest surges, fizzing up and over and spilling out as a laugh of pure joy. 

“I can’t believe you thought I was planning to seduce you,” he says. “As if I’m anywhere near suave enough for that!”

“I happen to think you’re very charming,” says Jon with mock affront, frowning, while a smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. “I’m sure you could seduce someone if you put your mind to it.”

“I’ll keep that one in my back pocket, then, just in case I ever have to become an international man of mystery.”

“Good idea,” Jon says solemnly, twining his fingers further with Martin’s. 

At last they reach a three storey house with a little patch of garden in the front, and buzzers at the door for the different flats. 

“This is _actually_ me,” says Jon. “Unless...you’d like to come in for tea?”

“Isn’t coffee the proper convention here?” Martin asks, and Jon laughs.

“Traditionally I, ahh, don’t think the beverage is the point,” he says, “But if you fancy a _literal_ cup of tea…?” 

“That sounds lovely,” says Martin. It sounds more than lovely, if it lets him spend more time with Jon; it sounds like the best idea in the world. 

Their hands are still linked as they walk to the front door, and Martin pauses there, tugs on Jon’s hand to stop him too. 

“All right?” Jon asks with a tiny frown. 

“Just one more first date cliché I think we should respect,” he replies seriously. “The kiss on the doorstep.” He leans in, and Jon moves to meet him, and it’s just as soft and heart pounding as their first kiss on the riverbank. Jon gives him a little smile when they part.

“You know, the kiss on the doorstep usually signifies the end of the date,” he says, unlocking the door. “But in this case, I think we can break the tradition.”

“Sounds good to me,” Martin laughs, and follows him inside.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me @cuttoothed on tumblr!


End file.
